The Lovers (Amores)

By Ovid

 

Book I

I

Arms and violent wars, with meter suited to matter,
Arms and violent wars, all in hexameters,
I was preparing to sound, when I heard a snicker from Cupid;
    What had the rascal done, but taken one foot away?
"Why, you bad boy!" I said, "who gave you this jurisdiction?
    We are the Muses' own, not your contemptible throng.
What if Venus should snatch the arms of fair-haired Minerva,
    What if Minerva should fan torches of love into flame?
Who would approve it if Ceres rules on the ridges of woodland,
    Tilling the fields that law gave to Diana for hers?
How would Apollo learn to brandish a sharp-pointed spear-shaft?
    Wouldn't Mars look like a fool strumming the Orphean lyre?
You have an empire, my boy, thrones and dominions and powers,
    Is there no end to ambition? Why do you claim any more?
Or is everything yours, and Helicon only a province,
Apollo a captive prince, hardly sure of his lyre?
My first line rose well, noble and lofty in measure,
    But the one you brought next surely corrupted the text.
What can I do in light verse? I have no boy I can sing of,
No nice long-haired girl making a theme for my lays."
So I complained, and he drew out a shaft from his quiver,
    Taking his time to choose just the right arrow to use,
Bent the bow, moon-shaped, at his knee, and "Poet," he told me,
    "Take what I send; this barb surely will sting you to song!"
Never was truer word spoken; that boy shot straight with his arrow,
    I am on fire, and my heart owns the dominion of love,
So let my work arise in the manner called elegiac:
    Good riddance, iron wars; good riddance, hexameters!
Now let my golden-haired Muse adorn herself with the myrtle,
    Dark-green, loving the ground, loved by the goddess of love.
II
What kind of business is this? The bed is hard, and the covers
    Will not stay in their place; I thrash, and I toss, and I turn
All the long night through, till my bones are utterly weary.
    What's the matter with me? Am I a victim of love?
I didn't think so, but – yes, that must be the cause of the trouble,
    Heartache, fever of love feeding the fire in my breast.
Do we give in, or exasperate fire by a struggle against it?
    Better give in, and so lighten the weight of the load.
I have seen fire blaze up when torches are swung in a circle,
    Seen them die down again, soon as you let them alone.
Oxen who fight the yoke of the plough take more of a beating,
    Horses that learn to submit hurt less from bridle and bit.
Love is a driver, bitter and fierce if you fight and resist him,
    Easy-going enough once you acknowledge his power.
Look! I confess! I am prey, I am plunder and spoil for you, Cupid;
    Beaten, I reach out my hands, taking the bonds of your law.
Little your praise if you capture a raw recruit, all defenseless –
    There is no need for a war; pardon and peace is my prayer.
Bind the temples with myrtle, harness the doves of your mother,
    Ride in a chariot of Mars, taking the cheers of the crowd!
Young men and girls will follow, prisoners in the procession,
    Far as the eye can reach, adding to pomp and parade,
And I will come dragging along, humbled, my wound fresh upon me,
    Bearing my captive chain with what endurance I can.
Conscience, her hands bound behind her, will march in the ranks of The vanquished;
    Modesty, too, will be there – all the opponents of love.
All will bow down before you, all will be chanting Hosannas,
    All with one great voice render you homage and praise.
And your camp-followers all, Folly, Illusion, and Madness,
    All that undisciplined crew dance their attendance on you.
Such are the legions you use in subduing both men and immortals,
    Take them away and you stand naked, no weapon at hand.
Oh, and your mother will watch and cheer the triumphal procession,
    Showering roses down for the parade of her son.
Golden, on golden wheels, ride to your golden glory,
    Jewels decking your wings, jewels decking your hair.
More than a few will be burnt by the golden flame, if I know you,
    More than a few be found hurt with a deadly wound.
Even against your will, the fiery flight of the arrows
    Still would flash and the fire wither everything near.
So rode Bacchus in pride over the Indian victims,
    Drawn by his tigers; you are spectacle, spare me,
So, since I must be part of the spectacle, spare me,
    Spend on me no more all the full force of your power.
Be a good boy for once, and learn a lesson from Caesar
    Whose victorious hand raises the victim he felled.
IV
So, that husband of yours is going to be at the party –
    Well, I hope he chokes; let him drop dead, who cares?
How am I going to act? – just stare at the girl I'm in love with,
    Be just one more guest, let some one else feel your breast,
Let some one else put his arms around you whenever he wants to,
    Sit at your side, rub knees, lean on your shoulder a bit?
I can believe what they say of the brawls of the Lapiths and Centaurs
    Over the fair-haired girl, after the wine went round.
I do not live in the woods, and my members are not like a horse's,
    Still I'll be having a time keeping my hands to myself.
Learn what you have to do, and please pay careful attention:
    Get there before he does – not that that does any good.
Anyway, get there before him, and when he reclines, you beside him,
    Modestly on the couch, give my foot just a touch,
Watch me for every nod, for every facial expression,
    Catch my signs and return them, never saying a word.
I can talk with my eyebrows and spell out words with my fingers,
    I can make you a sign, dipping my finger in wine.
When you think of the tumbles we've had in the hay together,
    Touch your cheek with your hand; then I will understand.
If you're a little bit cross with the way I may be behaving,
    Let your finger-tip rest light on the lobe of an ear.
If, on the other hand, what I am saying should please you,
    Darling, keep turning your ring; symbol enough that will be.
Fold your hands on the table, as people do when they're praying –
    That means you wish him bad luck, yes, and a lot of it, too.
When he mixes your wine, let him drink it himself; so inform him:
    Quietly speak to the boy, ask for the kind you enjoy.
 When you pass him the cup, let me have a sip as it goes by;
    Where you drank I will touch that part first with my lips.
Don't accept any food from a dish that he has first tasted;
    Keep his arms from your neck; don't lay your head on his chest;
Don't let his fingers grope in the neck of your dress or your bosom;
    More than everything else, don't let him kiss you at all.
Don't you kiss him, either; you do, and you'll have me announcing
    "Hands off there! She's mine" – and then I'll reach our for my claim.
All these things I can watch, but the acts that the robe is disguising
    Rouse all my blind fears; what I can't see is the worst.
Don't press knee to knee, nor let your thigh rub against him;
    Don't let your delicate toe touch those clodhoppers of his.
I am afraid of much, because I have made my own passes,
    So my torment is worse, knowing the way it goes.
Often – haven't we, dear? – we have had to hurry our pleasure
    Rushing the sweet caress under the folds of the dress.
This you will not do; but, lest you be thought to have done it,
    Let the cloak slip down, leaving the shoulders bare.
Let him drink all he wants; keep urging him, only don't kiss him.
    Keep on filling his glass, secretly, if you can.
Once he passes out cold, perhaps we can figure out something –
    Time and circumstance maybe will give us a chance.
When you rise to go home, and the rest of the company rises,
    Try as hard as you can to move in the thick of the throng.
You will find me there in the crowd, or else, be sure, I will find you,
    If you can reach me there, lay your hand on my arm.
Ah, but what good does this do? It is good for a few hours only.
    Separation draws near, separation, and night.
 At night he will lock you in, and I, all gloomy and tearful,
    Follow as far as I dare, up to the cruel door.
Then he'll get kisses from you, and get, I guess, more than kisses.
    What I cheat for, he owns; what can you do but give in?
But – this much you can do – give in as if you disliked it,
    Give in as if you were forced; don't say a word; be cold.
Venus hearing my prayer, there won't be much fun in it for him;
    And, if worst comes to worst, no fun at all for you.
Still, whatever occurs in the night, convince me, next morning
    What I would like to believe – tell me you slept alone.
VI
Doorkeeper – unworthy fate! – bound to the links of hard iron,
    Let the hinge turn, I pray; open the difficult door.
I am not asking much; half ajar is sufficient –
    If I stand sidewise and squeeze, that's all the room that I need.
Loving has made me thin, and taught me how to walk softly
    Past the guards of the night; love keeps my footsteps aright.
Once I was fearful of night, its darkness, shadows, and phantoms,
    Wondered how men would go where they might meet with a
        ghost.
Cupid and Venus laughed in my ear, both whispering "courage!"
    Love came without delay; now I can go my way,
Fearing no spectre by night, no muggers stalking the darkness,
    Only one thing I fear, you and the bolt of my doom.
Look! And that you may see, swing the grim barrier open;
    See how the hinge has been stained, wet with the oil of my tears.
Wasn't it I, when you once stood stripped and ready for flogging,
    Trembling, wasn't it I who spoke to your lady for you?
Yes, and a lot of good my graciousness seems to have done me:
    The hours of the night go by; take the bar from the door.
Take the bar from the door, and may you be lightened forever
    Of the long chain, nor drink water with every slave.
Doorkeeper, iron heart, I am pleading with you: will you listen?
    No, the door stands stiff, braced with its bar of oak.
Towns under siege need bolts, need bars by way of protection;
    We are living in peace; what do you fear from arms?
What will you do to a foe, when you act this way with a lover?
    The hours of the night go by; take the bar from the door.
I do not come here, a host in arms, with battalions of soldiers,
    Save for implacable love, I am completely alone,
And even though I should wish, I cannot give him dismissal,
    That would tear from my side part of my actual self.
Love for an escort, and wine, a little, to give me some courage,
    I with my chaplet askew – what do you think I can do?
Who could fear such a threat? Who would not cheerfully face it?
    The hours of the night go by; take the bar from the door.
Oh, but you're tough, or asleep, and the winds take the words of the
        Lover.
    If you're asleep on the job, I hope it costs you, you slob.
But I remember at first when I wanted you not to notice,
    You were on guard, alert, until the midnight stars.
Possibly now, while you sleep, your girl is lying beside you:
    So much the better for you; so much the worse for me.
I could accept the chains, given that other condition –
    The hours of the night go by; take the bar from the door.
What do I hear? A sound? The raucous harshness of hinges?
    No, it was only the wind, beating, like me, on the door.
All the city is still, and, dripping with dewdrops of crystal,
    The hours of the night go by; take the bar from the door.
Otherwise I myself, better armed with fire and with iron,
    Not with the torch in my hand, lay my assault to the door.
Night and love and wine hardly persuade moderation:
    Night has no shame; love and wine have no conception of fear.
I have tried everything now, and neither threats nor entreaties
    Serve to move you at all; you are as hard as the door.
Unbecoming, that you should guard a pretty girl's bedroom;
    You should watch in a jail, guarding some desperate cell.
Now the frost-white wheels of the dawn are already in motion,
    Now the bird of the dawn rouses poor men to their toil.
Lie there on the step, torn from my sorrowing temples,
    Chaplet, lie on the step, through the short remnant of night
Tell her, in mute reproach, when she sees you there in the morning
    What a bad time I spent, while the bar remained on the door.
Doorkeeper, fare you well; though I owe you a grudge, I acknowledge,
    Tough though you were, you were true, keeping the lover away.
And you fellow-slaves, cruel doorposts, lintel and threshold,
    Yielding me nothing at all, leaving, I give you farewell.
VII
Friend – if I have a friend – put the handcuffs upon me
    Till the madness has passed; my hands have deserved to be tied.
Mad I must have been, to lift a hand to my sweetheart;
    The poor girl is in tears, hurt by my crazy blows.
I would have lashed out, then, at the holy gods and their altars,
    Even the parents I love might have felt my violent hands.
Well! Did not Ajax, too, lord of the sevenfold aegis,
    Run amuck through the flocks, striking them down in the fields?
Did not Orestes avenge the adulterous guilt of his mother,
    Daring to ask for arms even against the Fates?
So that gave me the right, I suppose, to pull all her hair out!
    Still, her disheveled hair hardly injured her looks.
She was beautiful, so, as lovely as Atalanta
    Hunting Maenalian game, armed with the quiver and dart.
So much another have seemed, Ariadne, lonely on Naxos,
    Weeping for Theseus, false, borne on the wind from the south.
So much Cassandra have looked before the shrine of Minerva;
    One slight difference, though – fillets were binding her hair.
Who did not scream at me then, "Madman! Barbarian! Sadist!"?
    She said never a word; she was too frightened to speak.
Even her silence, though, proclaimed me guilty, reproved me;
    Tears accused me of crime, even though lips were dumb.
I could wish that my arms had sooner dropped from my shoulders;
    I'd have been better off lacking those parts of myself.
All to my own hurt, I spent my strength in my madness;
    Put the handcuffs upon me – that is the fate I deserve.
Would I escape had I struck the lowest, the beast, of Romans?
    How did I ever acquire greater domain over her?
Diomed started it all, with his sacrilegious example,
    Striking a goddess and I followed his evil way.
He was less guilty than I, who kept my blows for a loved one.
    Diomed, anyway, thought he was striking a foe.
Go now, conquering hero, ride in majesty onward,
    Twine with laurel the brow, pay your homage to Jove,
Let the crowd follow your car, and cheer, exultant in triumph,
    "Hail, all-glorious prince, victor over a girl!"
Let her trudge on ahead, her hair disheveled, a captive,
    White from head to foot save for the weals on her cheek.
Decenter, far, had I left bruises from too much kissing,
    Set, on her snowy neck, the sign of the bite of my teeth,
Or if I had to be swept away like the rush of a river,
    Raging full flood, the blind prey of my own angry mind,
 Would it not have sufficed to scream at the poor little darling,
    Sparing the poor little dove threats more in order from Jove?
Couldn’t I, like a beast, have ripped the gown from her shoulder
    All the way down to the waist, down to the girdle at least?
No! What I did was yank and tear the hair from her forehead,
    Clawing her freeborn cheeks with the rough slash of my nails.
There she stood in a daze, her features whiter than marble,
    Whiter than Parian stone hewn from the cliffs of the isle.
I saw her quiver in fear, I saw her limbs all a-tremble;
    So do the aspen-trees shake in the stir of the breeze,
So does the slender reed shudder when wind goes over,
    So does the ruffled wave answer the motion of air.
Then her tears, at long last, for she could no longer control them,
    Flooded, as water flows out of the melting of snow.
Then I first began to know myself for a scoundrel;
    Every tear she shed seemed like a drip of my blood.
Thrice I wanted to fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness;
    Thrice she pushed off my hands when they went out in appeal.
Vengeance will lessen remorse – claw at me, scratch at my features,
    Spare neither eyes nor hair; anger will make you strong.
Or, at the very least, to cancel my evil-doing,
    Or abolish its mark, straighten your hair with the comb.
IX
Lovers are always at war, with Cupid watching the ramparts:
    Atticus, take it from me; lovers are always at war.
What's the right age for love? – the same as that for a soldier.
    How disgusting to all, old men at war, or in love!
What the captains demand, aggressiveness, ardor of spirit,
    That's what a pretty girl wants when a man's on the hunt.
Both keep watch all night, one at the tent of his captain
    On the hard ground, and one on the stone step of his girl.
The soldier's service is long, but send a girl on before him
    And the unfaltering lover plods the road without end.
Over the mountains he goes, through the rain-doubled rivers,
    Ploughing through snow piled deep, sailing the starless seas.
Who but a soldier or lover would bear the desolate seasons,
    Snow, sleet, gloom of night on his appointed rounds?
One is sent to observe the actions of enemy agents,
    The other, also, must spy; a rival is also a foe.
One lays siege to tall towns, the other his mistress's portals,
    One batters gateways down; one pounds away at a door.
Often success in war comes with the enemy's slumber –
    Rush in, then, and strike down all the unarmed of the town.
That was Diomed's way when he captured the horses of Rhesus
    And those Thracian steeds left their master behind.
Often success in love comes while a husband is sleeping;
    Lovers invading by dark use the appropriate tools;
Working their way through guards, eluding vigilant sentries,
    This is a task that tries soldier and lover alike.
Mars is a doubtful god, and Venus never too certain:
    Often the beaten rise; often invincibles fall.
Let it never be said that love is an indolent calling;
    Love is the test of a man ready for any proof.
While Achilles was moping over Briseis taken
    That was the time for Troy to shatter the argive host.
From Andromache's arms Hector went rushing to battle –
    She was the one who set helmet and plume on his head.
Agamemnon stood spellbound at the sight of Cassandra,
    Daughter of Priam there, Maenad with streaming hair.
Mars caught in the toils forged by the cuckolded Vulcan:
    How the story went round all of Olympus knows well.
I was a lazy man, with a bent for bedroom and slippers,
    Doing what work I did half lying down in the shade.
Love for a beautiful girl took me out of the doldrums;
    When the order came, I sprang to arms in her camp.
So you see me alert and waging my wars in the might-time –
    If you want to forswear idleness, then fall in love!
X
Such as Helen was, when she left the banks of Eurotas,
    Leaving one lord for another, angel of war to them both;
Such as Leda was, whom Jupiter, crafty as lover,
    White in the radiant plumage, took in the guise of the swan;
Such as Amymone was, wandering over the parched lands,
    Bearing the urn on her head, walking majestic and tall;
Such were you, I thought, and was fearful of bull or of eagle
    Or whatever disguise Jove might assume for your eyes.
Now my fear is gone, my mind is cured of its error;
    All the charm you possessed troubles my sight no more.
Why? You well may ask. Because you are asking for money.
    If you please me no more, that is a good reason why.
While you were simple, I loved you, loved you, body and spirit,
    Now your beauty I find spoiled by the fault of your mind.
 Love is a naked child: do you think he has pockets for money?
    Love is a naked child: do you think him for sale at a price?
Do you take them, mother and son, for mercenary campaigners,
    Harsh in the feats of war, serving for stipend or pay?
Tarts and call-girls wait, prix fixe, the demands of the market;
    They solicit, poor things, what the body can bring.
Yet even they curse out the percentage of pimp and of pander,
    Bargaining under duress. You do this on your own.
Take for example the beasts of the field; they are lacking in reason,
    Still, they are kinder than you – that is the final disgrace.
Heifers don't ask the bull for a gift, nor mares beg from stallions;
    Rams don't come to the ewe brining a present or two.
Woman alone exults in the spoil she can take from a lover;
    Woman peddles her time and her place, and woman alone
Sells what both of them like, and what they both have been seeking,
    Sells it, and sets the price high as the pleasure she gets.
Why should one cash in, when two of them get the enjoyment?
    Why should one sell it, and one have to pay for the fun?
  Why do I have to lose, and you insist on a profit,
    When whatever we do brings equal pleasure to two?
Counselors can't take fees if they know their clients are guilty;
    When their verdicts are bought, courts are considered corrupt.
Don't think going to bed for money is any less shameful:
    Beauty for sale at a price – what an abominable vice!
Thanks are, deservedly, due for offerings lavishly given;
    Love that is meanly hired rates no devotion at all.
Pay for it, and that's that – no more than a business transaction:
    No one's been gracious or sweet; no one's in anyone's debt.
Ah, my lovely ones, please – don't put a price on an evening!
    That kind of profit, I know, does you no good in the end.
Think of the case of Tarpeia – remember? – asking the Sabines
    What their left arms bore; wasn't she crushed by the shields?
Think of Eriphyle, seduced by desire of a necklace,
    Slain by Alcmaeon her son, treason and vengeance in one.
Still, it might not be so bad to ask for gifts form the wealthy;
    They have plenty to give; only let poets alone.
Where the vines hand fill, reach out and plunder the clusters;
    Let Alcinous' field answer with generous yield.
But when a man is poor, all he can bring is devotion,
    That and a loyal heart as the award of his love.
I have a gift to confer, one gift, the power of my poems:
    Girls who deserve it will be not without honor from me.
Dresses rot into rags; the gold and the jewels will tarnish;
    Only the poet's song guarantees splendor for long.
Giving, that I don't mind: what I hate and despise is your asking;
    Ask me no more, and learn how I can give in return!
XII
Over the ocean the bright one comes from her ancient Tithonus,
    Bringing with her the day, and the hoarfrost shines on her  car.
"Dawdle a while, Aurora; wait while the starlings of Memnon
    Pay their annual rite, dark in the shadows of air.
Now is the time for me to lie in the arms of my darling;
    Now, if ever, the time to be holding her close to my side.
Now our slumbers are deep, and cool is the air of the morning,
    Now the clear song of the birds rises from delicate throats.
Dawdle a while, Aurora, unwelcome to girls and their lovers;
    Let your rosy hand take a firm grip on the reins.
Mariners read the stars better before you have risen,
    Unconfused and sure, riding the midst of the waves.
Reveille sounds at your coming: the soldier buckles his armor;
    Weary wayfaring men shoulder their burdens again.
You are the first to see farmers at work with the mattock;
    You are the first to call the slow steers under the yoke;
You cheat schoolboys of sleep, and turn them over to teachers,
    Holding their poor little hands out for the smack of the rule.
You bring many to court, witnesses, judges, and lawyers,
    Where a single word ruins many a case.
Little joy do you bring to either attorney or student,
    Each of them has to rise, starting all over each day.
You, when woman might rest from the toilsome spinning and weaving,
    Call the hand to the wool, never allow them a pause.
I could endure all that – but to make girls get up in the morning,
    Who but a man with no girl ever could stand this at all?
 How many times have I prayed that the wind would shatter an axle,
    Prayed for a thickening cloud, causing your horses to fall!
Hateful one, dawdle a while. Your son has come by his color
    Honestly, that we know; the heart of his mother is black.
If Tithonus would tell what he knows, no goddess in heaven
    Ever deserved more blame; you flee him because he is old,
But if you held in your arms the form of the mortal you wanted,
    Then you would cry, 'Run slowly, slowly, horses of night!'
Is it my fault as a lover, if yours is old and disgusting?
    Is it my fault that you married this tiresome old man?
See how long a sleep Endymion knows in the moonlight –
    Is the moon less fair than the dawn, less beholden to love?
Jupiter doubled the nights, once, to see you less often,
    Doubling his pleasure so – Hercules' mother would know!"
So, I ended my scolding. You could tell she had heard; she was blushing.
    Nevertheless, the day came in promptly on time.